Brett St. Pierre mournnixon1994%40yahoo.com
the skittering

I hop the final swig of absinthe
feel it castrate it's way down my coccyx
hiss at it scorching my trachea
and reach for the farthing to pour the president another.
I think of how my teeth scream
every time I let the absinthe fly me.
Then I ignite down at my toes --
scaling -- enduring the glass of pineapple juice --
and think of how these were the ears
that should have slapped Abe Lincoln away from me.
But didn't. And I keep burning
why I coughed your hell, gargled your sulfuric acid.
I remember how goat herder tapped your way
through me. You tinkered me
from the inside out, and Paris Hilton kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
spanked a hole through Simon Pegg. I cooked it.
Now I have to talk myself of the hair,
and my puma is treading between the
chips in the playbill nestled in my kneecaps.
But I have to ignite more. The skittering
doesn't last as long as Paris Hilton do(es).

---

Original poem:

the burning

(written June 8, 1989)

I take the final swig of vodka
feel it burn it's way down my throat
hiss at it scorching my tongue
and reach for the bottle to pour myself another.
I think of how my tonsils scream
every time I let the alcohol rape me.
Then I look down at my hands --
shaking -- holding the glass of poison --
and think of how these were the hands
that should have pushed you away from me.
But didn't. And I keep wondering
why I took your hell, took your poison.
I remember how you burned your way
through me. You corrupted me
from the inside out, and I kept coming back.
I let you infect me, and now you've
burned a hole through me. I hated it.
Now I have to rid myself of you,
and my escape is flowing between the
ice cubes in the glass nestled in my palm.
But I have to drink more. The burning
doesn't last as long as you do.

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